


Line Call

by fickery



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fickery/pseuds/fickery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the most competitive player can be knocked off her game by the right opponent</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line Call

**Author's Note:**

> This is for tielan, who wrote the second Steve/Maria fic I ever read and got me hooked on the pairing, and who regularly laments that hardly anyone else is writing them. My first Avengers fic as well as my first Steve/Maria, so feedback is welcome.

 

Lieutenant Maria Hill’s eyes locked onto her challenger.

He was bigger, and undoubtedly stronger, although she probably had the advantage when it came to agility and speed. She knew she had more recent experience than he did on this particular field of engagement. But she wasn’t about to underestimate him, even though she figured he would probably underestimate her. Lots of people did.

She took a beat to acknowledge the improbable setting: the warm, sunny weather, their casual attire, and oh, yes, the identity of her opponent.

“Zero-zero, love-all,” she called, and threw the ball up in the air.

Captain Steve Rogers seemed startled when the ball screamed by him, so close he had to twist to one side to avoid bodily injury.

The ball hit just inside the baseline. Ace. Her point. He turned to look at her, a stunned, faintly accusatory expression on his face. 

 _What, does he think we aren’t playing for real here? That I’m going to take it easy on him? Has he_ met _me?_

  
***-*-*-***

  
At the moment, Steve was trying to remember exactly how he’d ended up here, facing one of the scariest women he’d ever met—no small feat, that—over a tennis net late one Sunday afternoon when they’d barely exchanged a few hundred words between them in all the months he’d known her.

She was difficult, if not impossible, to read. It seemed to be mostly by design. Oh, he was sure she was a serious person by nature; no one her age could have climbed so far, so fast in an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D. unless they were. But even in this day and age, it seemed like women still had to work twice as hard as men to prove themselves. Especially in combat situations like the one in which he’d first met her. She kept her emotions, even her personality, locked down because she had to. Because the job required it.

He’d spent a lot of time watching her on the helicarrier during the New York assault. Watching her keep watch over everyone else. Petty though it might be, he’d felt vindicated by her initial reaction to Stark, which pretty much mirrored his own; she’d stopped just short of actually rolling her eyes at the man’s antics. And her reaction to Dr. Banner had been the same as his also: respect—tempered with caution.

He got the sense that she shared many of his values: patriotism, loyalty; recognition that being a good soldier, or a good team member, was about following orders (and not about grandstanding, _Stark)_. He couldn’t stop watching her. But he didn’t feel a personal connection to her, not really. Not then.  

In the days that followed New York, he did other assignments for S.H.I.E.L.D. Sometimes with other Avengers, sometimes not. Despite the fact that their career backgrounds were…morally gray, at best…he found Natasha and Clint very comfortable to work with: they were both efficient, mission-focused, hard working and calm, with dry, understated senses of humor.

They’d brought Banner in a couple of times via video for technical advice and direction. Everyone seemed to find working with him a lot more relaxing when he was thousands of miles away, and the wry twist of his mouth suggested he understood that all too well.

More often than not, Hill was either running ops or directly in charge. She seemed to have been given the unofficial (or maybe it _was_ official; hell, it wasn’t like S.H.I.E.L.D. told _him_ much of anything) mantle of Avengers Wrangler. From what he could see, she didn’t enjoy it very much. After all the infighting she’d seen between them during the New York attack, he couldn’t blame her for feeling like she had the worst babysitting job on earth.

She was polite to him during the missions. Respectful. Not overly talkative. He’d developed a healthy appreciation for her intelligence and abilities, but it wasn’t while working that he’d gotten to know her (inasmuch as he _could_ say he’d gotten to know her, which wasn’t much at all). Rather, it was in the gym.

He had access to other training facilities, including Stark’s private gym, but he preferred S.H.I.E.L.D.’s because they were far more comprehensive than any he’d ever been in.

And even on a base filled with gung-ho overachievers, somehow he wasn’t surprised to see that she was usually the only other person who got up at the same insanely early hour as he did to work out.

They didn’t speak to each other at first, just nodded in polite acknowledgement. She gave him a wide berth, even as they moved around to different stations and changed machines. If she got on a treadmill at the same time as he did, she took one at the far end of the row, not next to him.

He didn’t take it personally. At least, he didn’t think he did. One of the reasons he didn’t like working out at Stark Towers was that Tony chattered at him nonstop, the verbal equivalent of poking him repeatedly, trying to get some kind of reaction out of him or start an argument. It was irritating and stressful and not what he went to the gym for.

He assumed she was the same, using her workout time to organize her thoughts at the beginning of the day. Sometimes she wore those tiny headphones—what were they called again? Earbuds—and sometimes not. He wondered if she was listening to music or reviewing mission debriefs.

She never, ever smiled.    

And he couldn’t stop watching her.

_Beautiful, brunette, strong, capable… Face it, Rogers. You have a type._

The voice in his head—amused, feminine and British—was suspiciously familiar.  

He wasn’t sure what made him talk to her ( _Don’t you?_ the still-amused voice asked) but one morning as she was passing by him, mopping her face with a towel, he blurted, “You don’t look like you’re having any fun.”

She stopped and turned, looking more surprised that he’d spoken at all than upset by _what_ he’d said. He supposed it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that. “When you work out, I mean.” _Now would be a good time to shut up. Or thirty seconds ago. Thirty seconds ago would have been swell, too,_ he thought.  

“You’re one to talk,” she said, her voice cool and even. “Every morning you whale on that punching bag like it just insulted your mother.”

“Here is where I let out my aggressions. So they don’t slip out elsewhere.”

“Yes,” she said simply. She slung her towel around her neck and started to turn away.

“I just meant…don’t you do any kind of activity just for fun?”

He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to stop, except that this was the longest conversation he’d ever had with her and he wasn’t ready for it to be over yet.

Her expression was enigmatic. As usual. “Like?”

“Like…I dunno, bike-riding.”

She stared at him, still holding onto the ends of her towel. _I travel by helicarrier_ , he could practically hear her thinking. _Why on earth would I ride a bike anywhere?_

“I used to row, in college,” she finally said. “And play tennis.”

“Tennis. Do people still play tennis?” It always made him feel a little more grounded when he found out that something he used to do, or listen to, or watch, was still relevant in the present.

“Yes,” she said, still looking at him strangely. “People still play tennis.”

He nodded. And then, because what the hell: “We should play some time.”

He’d never know why she agreed. Maybe out of pity, because she thought he was lonely. Or maybe because she was. Or maybe she was just curious. He hoped to God she didn’t regard it as an extension of her official Avengers babysitting duties.

  
***-*-*-***

  
He couldn’t read her expression right now (when could he ever?); her eyes were shaded behind smart-looking aviator sunglasses. He returned the ball and she went to serve again.

“Fifteen-love.”

The first ball went into the net; she sent a softer lob over for her second attempt. And then they started volleying.

That gimme serve turned out to be the easiest she took it on him all afternoon. She played aggressively, smashing balls at him so hard he had to duck and dodge more than once when it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to return it. Funny: the way he remembered it, tennis was supposed to be a non-contact sport. He’d bet anything it still was, if your opponent was anyone other than Maria Hill.

As he warmed up, got his court legs, he started giving her as good as he got. They were unexpectedly well-matched.

He admired how she refused to give up a single point. If he hit something out of her reach, she ran for it anyway, fighting hard for it. Nearly half the time, she was successful, managing to get it back over the net.

That was _definitely_ a woman you wanted on your side in a combat situation.

He won the first set, just barely. 7 - 6. They met at one of the side benches to rehydrate and rest for a minute before changing sides.

He watched her tilt her head back, exposing her long, slender neck, as she drank deeply from her water bottle. Saw a bead of sweat sliding down her collarbone and continue on down between her breasts.

He saw her do this every morning. But he’d never seen so much of her before. Today she was wearing a plain tank top and shorts. _Short_ shorts.

In the gym she wore t-shirts, usually long-sleeved ones, and sweatpants, or yoga pants or whatever women called them now. That painted-on jumpsuit thing she normally wore on the job certainly did nothing to conceal her form—he’d caught Stark eyeing her more than once, in a sort of absent-minded, reflexively appreciative way—but he’d never seen so much of her skin before. And all of it was lightly tanned and smooth and…

 _Get a grip, Rogers._ He tried to cover by bending over to re-tie his shoes. And then he got distracted on the way up.

“Steve?”

He jerked his eyes up to her face, trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring at her legs. Her long, long, legs.

“Can you grab the other can of balls?”

“Sure.” As he peeled it open, he thought about how strange it sounded, hearing her say his first name. He realized it was the first time she ever had. Did this mean he got to call her Maria?

“Ready?”

“Ready.” He couldn’t resist asking, “Having fun yet?”

She gave him a half-smile, which was still one hundred percent more smile than he’d ever seen on her face before. “I am. I’ll be having even more when I beat you.” She started onto the court.

An answering grin spread across his own face. “Well, I’m sorry to say I’m planning to make your afternoon _less_ fun, then.” He tossed the can of balls to her.

If he had to quantify it, he’d call the smile nearly seventy-five percent now as she caught it. “Yeah, we’ll see, Ace.”

  
***-*-*-***

  
She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to this either, but she had to admit, she was enjoying it. She was competitive as hell by nature, and one of the reasons she’d stopped playing tennis socially was that her play was deemed too aggressive by her former partners.

She’d never understood it. What was the point of playing a competitive game in the first place if you weren’t playing it to win?

Steve (it felt strange to call him that, but they were off the clock now, and she couldn’t keep calling him by his rank, could she?) had seemed taken aback at first too, but he’d quickly adapted, and now he seemed to be enjoying it.

Looking at him across the net, she was forced to admit that he looked…disturbingly good. She was used to seeing him in plain, tight v-necked t-shirts like he was wearing now, and he tended to wear clingy sweatpants in the gym, which left little enough to the imagination. Not that her imagination spent any time thinking about what his sweatpants were or were not concealing. But right now he was wearing khaki shorts that bared his bulging thighs and muscular calves and it was just—it was a lot to take in all at once.

Especially when she’d been standing right next to him when they took their break. His physical presence was kind of overwhelming up close. Not that that was why she usually kept her distance in the gym. No, she was simply trying to be respectful and give him some privacy, that was all. The fact that it was easier to sneak glances at him when she was a little distance away didn’t factor in, either.

Nope.

  
***-*-*-***

  
They battled ferociously through the next set, which she won, and then the third. Finally it came down to match point. After another long, hard volley, her return landed right on the baseline.

“Out,” he called.

“It looked in from here.”

“Well, I’m closer and believe me, it was out.”

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, looking like she wanted to argue, then capitulated. “Fine. If you say it was out, it was out. You win. Your match.”

“Don’t make it sound like you’re doing me a favor,” he protested. “Do you really think I’d lie about something like that?” This had better not be more of that babysitting crap, with her giving in just because it was her job to keep him occupied and placated.

“I believe _you_ believe it was out,” she said magnanimously.

“Oh, for…it _was_.”

“Absolutely. You bet.”

“My eyesight is excellent.”

“So is mine.” She retrieved the stray balls lying around her and walked towards the bench.

He met her there. “I demand a rematch.”

“You know, it’s usually the loser who says that,” she said calmly, stowing her racket.

“Okay, so challenge me to a rematch.”

“That’s really not necessary, Captain.”

Oh, now he was Captain again? _I don’t think so._ “You know, you should’ve warned me that you’re a sore loser, _Maria_.”

Her jaw dropped and she turned to face him. “I’m _not_.”

“Prove it,” he said. “Let me buy you a beer.”

  
***-*-*-***

  
She surprised him again when she took him up on it. But when the tall, frosty pints were placed in front of them, she beat him to the punch with her credit card. “It’s also customary for the loser to pay.”

“But since you disputed my line call, which decided the match, it seems like I should be the one paying,” he countered.

She shrugged. “Next time.” 

 _Next time?_ he thought.

As if she’d heard the unspoken question, her beer glass paused on the way to her mouth. “I’m not sure how else we can settle it. We could arm wrestle for it, but you’d have an unfair advantage there, I’m afraid.”

“I see your point,” he said gravely.

Her mouth wasn’t smiling now, but her eyes definitely were.

He lifted his mug. “To having fun.”

She clinked her glass against his. “And to rematches.”

  
 


End file.
